


Masterpiece

by WhiteRoseOfRivendell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: A small amount of fluffiness, Ficlet, M/M, One Shot, Parentlock, just cute really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 18:36:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11446695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteRoseOfRivendell/pseuds/WhiteRoseOfRivendell
Summary: John has to fill in at the surgery, which means Rosie will need a sitter. Who better than the world's only consulting detective? All goes well, until John comes home to an experiment in progress.Written for a prompt from the group I Am JohnLocked: Writers and Readers.





	Masterpiece

I never thought that anything would go wrong. I had left the flat in good condition. I had even put away all incendiary devices and sharp objects. Actually, I had hidden them to be precise. It’s not that I didn’t trust Sherlock, but this had become standard procedure since I found Rosie with a micropipette in her mouth at less than a year old. 

Sherlock had responded with, “She wanted it,” a slightly guilty look followed, “It’s not as if it is sharp. I took off the tip.”

I then made it clear that there was to be no more experiment paraphernalia about where Rosie could reach. It was bad enough having heads in the fridge and molds on the counter. Scalpels, beakers, forceps, and chemicals was where I drew the line. Now, I am not the most cautious person by nature, but in recent months it had become blindingly apparent that the flat needed baby-proofing. I had gone about placing things out of reach of my plucky and inquisitive toddler. Some of the kitchen, particularly the cupboards, had to be rearranged, much to Sherlock’s dismay. He never said anything much, however. He knew better than that after the scientific utensils talk. 

There wasn’t much sense about him when it came to children. Even after knowing him and his family for so long, I still had trouble imagining him ever being one. He was learning though, and it was quite hysterical watching him with Rosie. She would often do silly or random things, as young children tend to, and Sherlock would get the most puzzled look on his face. I couldn’t help but laugh at their interactions. It was endearing.

I had left for the surgery around eight that morning. I didn’t work there regularly anymore, just sort-of filled in. The day had been uneventful. There were a few cases of flu, a twisted ankle, one second degree burn, and two colds. Nothing extraordinary for a mid-September day. The lack of excitement, coupled with the current domestic situation, made me anxious to get home. Normally, Mrs. Hudson was there for back up at the very least. Most often she was the primary caretaker, of both of my children. Today she was visiting a friend, so Sherlock was on his own.

At lunch I texted:

Remember, you have to feed her.

His response:

I have the matter well in hand. -SH

That was about the best response I could have hoped for, vague though it was. Still, I decided to leave early that day. As I rode in the cab, I felt fairly good about the whole thing. Of course Sherlock was fine with her. He was a right prat sometimes, but he loved her and would not allow any harm to come to her. He had babysat before, though usually with help or only for a short time. I wondered as I stared at the buildings passing by what the two of them had gotten up to. The thought of Sherlock playing with dolls on the floor with a cheerfully babbling little girl brought a rather amused grin to my face. I half hoped that I would walk in on a scene like that. And though I would want to remark in a sarcastic fashion, the warm feeling it would give me would win out. I imagined myself slowly sitting down next to the both of them, creaking knees and all, and taking Rosie in my lap. I’d give her a tight squeeze that she’d only tolerate for a second before pushing me away. She was always so busy and the chance to play with her dolls on the floor would be the priority in her two year old mind.

I chuckled to myself as the cab pulled up outside 221B Baker Street. But the mirth would only last a moment. I opened the door to the flat and walked toward the voices I heard coming from the kitchen. It was there that I saw them. Sherlock was bent over the table beside Rosie, who stood on an obliging chair. Goggles, that appeared gigantic on her little face, were strapped around her head. The blue rubber band being adjusted for the size, caused two flaps to bounce off of the sides of her head in a way that would have been rather comedic if the situation had been different. But it was not. Beakers with various colors of liquid were spread out over the table. One was in front of the pair. Sherlock held Rosie’s hand as she used an eye dropper to squeeze something yellow into it. He counted sweetly to her and she repeated the numbers back to him. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled brilliantly.

‘He’s doing one of his experiments,’ I thought, ‘and he’s allowing my daughter around God knows what kind of solutions. This is all a game to him. If he didn’t want to babysit, he should have damn well told me. Everything is about the work to him. His stupid, stupid work. It comes before everything, eating, sleeping, and apparently my two year old. How dare he. This is low even for him,’ I fumed, ‘She could get hurt, or sick. She could break the glass and cut herself. He’s so immersed that he’s not even looking up. What could be more important than my Rosie? Nothing. Nothing should come before her, before her safety. It’s completely unacceptable.’

It all ran through my head in an instant. My father instincts were kicking in. Not only that, but the thought of Rosie getting hurt, or worse, brought about a slight panic. She was the most important thing in my life. She was beautiful, smart, and precious. She was all I had left of Mary. I couldn’t protect Mary. My vision tunneled.

‘I can’t protect Rosie, not all the time. What if…’ The thought came to me, as it often did. It was a fear that I could never explain to anyone who had not experienced it first hand. It is a constant companion, popping in at any moment. I suppose that is the plight of a parent.

I could feel the heat in my chest start to rise within me and my body hummed with overactive sensibilities, “What the Hell do you think you’re doing?” I yelled.

The two of them jumped simultaneously and looked up.

“Dada!” Rosie squealed in delight and held out her arms for me.

I stalked over and grabbed her, pulling her up and away from the beaker-strewn table, “What is all of this? I ask you for one thing, Sherlock, one thing,” I paused, the rage boiling inside, “All you had to say was that you had plans, or you needed to work. I could have made other arrangements, I could have…” I sighed, trying to calm myself, but it was no use, “She’s two, Sherlock! You can’t allow a toddler around dangerous experiments, let alone having her assist. For a genius, you are bloody ignorant.”

Sherlock stood there. At first he had looked startled, then confused. Now he had turned his attentions to his shoes. He did not look at me. Perhaps it was an admission of guilt, perhaps a mere reaction to the chiding, but he looked somewhat…sad. I could not pay that any mind at the moment, however, what he had done was inexcusable.

“Is any of this toxic? It better not be because if I find so much as a reddened patch on her, I swear, Sherlock…” 

He didn’t respond. So I waited. I waited for him to say something, anything. Maybe I was channeling my father, but I wanted to know what he had to say for himself. This was no small transgression and I could not even get a sorry out of him. I seethed.

“I can’t look at you right now,” I spat, “I am so disappointed. I thought you cared about Rosie, thought you would protect her. I depended on you, and you let me down in so many ways,” my voice grew thin and choked at the end. Besides the anger, which was most prominent in the current moment, I was incomprehensibly let down. I deflated a bit at that realization and fell silent.

Sherlock shifted and audibly sucked in a breath of air. I could tell that he wanted to say something, but his lips shut again tightly. When he looked at me, his face was a storybook. Unfortunately, the language to read it was not within my grasp. All I could do was follow him as he walked around the other side of the table, into the living room, and out the front door. He hadn’t even missed a step when he grabbed his coat and scarf from the hook. The door slammed behind him noisily. He never said a word.

Rosie began to whimper. The corners of her mouth turned down and her bottom lip slid forward slightly, set in a pout. Her eyes wide, she called after him, “Shok, paint. Paint, Shok. Shok…” She looked at me then, “Dada, paint?”

I looked to where her tiny finger was pointing. There, behind the beakers was a box of washable, non-toxic food coloring. Upon further inspection I discovered several paint brushes and sheets of white paper. The table had been covered with newspaper and a cup of water with used brushes sat in the far corner. I looked up from the table and peered around the kitchen. Through my tirade I had neglected to observe the multiple paintings hung on a string with clothes pins to dry. They were brightly colored, though some looked like they were overly mixed, bordering on black. Rosie showed me her hands. They were perfect, delicate, small, and all the colors of the rainbow. 

“Fo-you Dada,” she pointed to her masterpieces.

I looked around with over exaggerated awe and appreciation. Then I touched my forehead to hers and gave her a squeeze. And though I felt like a complete arse, I couldn’t help but smile. 

Sherlock did not come home until well into the evening. Rosie had been tucked snugly in her crib, with a few extra hugs and kisses. I was making tea in the newly decorated kitchen, courtesy of the two people that I loved most in the world. It had all been done for me and the guilt over how I had reacted, how I had jumped to conclusions without so much as looking past my nose, kept me silent as I turned to face him. He was in the sitting room, acting as if he were busy, but I knew better. I took a few shameful steps toward him. It was my turn to stare at my shoes.

“She has a knack for painting,” my voice was small & contrite, “Don’t know who she gets that from.”

The jest fell as flat as the air in the room.

Sherlock turned to me, looking as though he was about to launch into one of his practical ramblings about how a toddler’s motor skills were too underdeveloped to make such a conclusion, but all he said was, “Yes.”

Discomfort filled the room and I could no longer stand it, “Listen, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I saw the table and the beakers and I just, well, I assumed. You’re always saying that I see, but do not observe,” I shuffled my feet a bit, “I should never have doubted you,” my eyes met his and I knew that he could see the apology in them. And though I am admittedly not the most observant person, I could see the hurt begin to melt away in his.

“John, I know I am not your first choice for a sitter,” he took a few steps forward, now meeting me in the kitchen doorway, “but I would never do anything that would put Rosie in danger.”

“I know, I…”

“No, I don’t think that you do. I failed you once, I don’t intend on doing it again.” 

He knew. He knew I had been thinking about Mary. His voice sounded breathless, as if it were taking all he had to express what was on his mind. Nevertheless, he stood tall. He had not been in the wrong, and he knew it, but he was not one to lord it over me. 

I sighed and began again in earnest, “Thank you for taking care of her, for teaching her to paint. I honestly didn't think you had it in you.”

“My interests are not solely scientific nor forensic. She is too young for the violin, and I remembered how much I enjoyed painting as a child.”

“You painted?” I said with a laugh.

“I’ll have you know that I made many a masterpiece in my younger years,” he smiled and the mood lightened.

It was infectious, in fact, his smile. I could not help but reflect it, “All right Picasso, what do you say to popcorn and a movie?”

“All right, but I get to choose it.”

“You don’t know any movies.”

“Then I shall deduce which one will be tolerable.”

“This should be interesting…”

The whole scene ended right where it had begun. The two of us stood in the kitchen amidst a show of color. Rosie's artwork, a backdrop for our conversation, hung like a banner of pride along the cupboards. We talked and made the popcorn. We joked and walked to sit on the sofa. Perhaps it was my imagination, but Sherlock may have just deduced one of my favorite movies on purpose. And if I sat a little closer to him than normal, he didn't give any indication that he minded. 

It must be said that during the opening credits, and as the sweet music began, his hand came to rest upon mine. I looked down and then up. His eyes, blue, and green, and gorgeous, looked back. One rogue curl fell in front of the rest and I felt compelled to brush it aside. Not that it marred his features, you see, but at that very moment, I saw a masterpiece in him.

 

A masterpiece may hang on a wall  
Bearing gifts to short and tall  
But in it’s center you will see  
All the things you’d like to be  
If you never look, it will be there  
If you never see, it is aware  
Please, it says, look this way  
Please, it says one September day  
I will sit and wait with you  
Looking on when you are blue  
I will rise when when skies are grey  
And amuse the clouds away  
It brings about a mournful cry  
Of need and peace, of how and why  
The observer there could never know  
How the observed loves him so  
A masterpiece that hangs on a wall  
And does its best to never fall


End file.
